


a warm welcome

by sanzuh



Series: and my heart is a hollow plain [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Dark Jon Snow, Dark Sansa Stark, F/M, Ghost is a Good Boy (ASoIaF), Half-Sibling Incest, POV Petyr Baelish, Telepathic Bond
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-06
Updated: 2020-10-06
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:54:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 983
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26677000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sanzuh/pseuds/sanzuh
Summary: Petyr has heard rumours about what happened in Winterfell, whispers that the Boltons are dead and that the North has a Queen now.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Series: and my heart is a hollow plain [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1941112
Comments: 53
Kudos: 176
Collections: Jonsa Autumn Drabbles 2020





	a warm welcome

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kazetoame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kazetoame/gifts).



> Jonsa Dungeons & Drabbles Day 3: _Magical ~~OR~~ Natural_
> 
>  _Magical_ refers to Jon and Sansa's magical connection, _natural_ to what I would consider the natural conclusion of Littlefinger's story.

Petyr has heard rumours about what happened in Winterfell, whispers that the Boltons are dead and that the North has a Queen now. He wonders whether it could be true. How could she have achieved such a thing without his help? He'd prefer to find out more before he enters the castle again, but it seems his informants have failed to send him any new information. 

The gates are opened for him, and he's welcomed inside, the guards demeanour frosty but polite enough. _Northerners,_ he scoffs internally. He's escorted to the Great Hall and as he walks down the long path to the dais at the far end, he sees three figures emerge from the shadows, still and stony as the Kings of Winter in the crypts below. He'd only been there once, and he'd left again as soon as possible. For some inexplicable reason, he could have sworn he'd heard sharp, icy whispers trying to chase him out for the whole time he was down there.

At first, he only sees her. She sits her Weirwood Throne with a confidence he hasn't seen in her before, one hand lightly draped over an armrest, the other in her lap, her back straight but her posture relaxed. Her fiery hair is flowing freely all around her ivory face, her blue eyes icy and piercing. She's wearing a sleeveless grey gown with many layers of flimsy skirts that doesn't provide enough cover for the frosty weather, even here in the Hall. When she shifts, he detects the curve of her swollen belly, but he follows the movement of her arm, reaching up to the man who is standing to her left.

He is the spitting image of Ned Stark, and yet he isn't, though Petyr finds it hard to determine where the difference lies. Perhaps in the curly hair, the dark, hollow eyes, the cruel smile. This must be the bastard, though Petyr could have sworn he'd been murdered by his sworn brothers of the Watch. He takes her hand between the both of his, both tenderness and a fierce protectiveness emanating from his flaring nostrils and the way he cradles her hand. Despite the cold, he's only wearing a loosely laced up tunic and woolen breeches, both black.

To the right side of the throne, an enormous white wolf is looming over her. The beast doesn't move or growl, but his red eyes send a shiver down Petyr's spine he tries to conceal as he offers Sansa Stark a benign smile.

"Sansa," he addresses her. "I'm glad to find you in such good health."

"Your Grace," the bastard corrects him. Petyr's lip twitches, but he ignores him.

"So the rumours are true then?"

She exchanges a glance with her half-brother, and he feels as if they're having a conversation they don't wish him to be privy to. 

"I suppose that would depend on the rumours, Lord Baelish," she answers him flatly, her voice nasal and low.

"I'm sure there's time to discuss them later," he answers pleasantly, and gestures at her belly. The bastard inches forward, but she squeezes his hand. "I believe congratulations are in order?" Petyr continues. "But what of your husband?"

This time they don't look at each other, yet he still can't shake the feeling they're communicating in some way. 

"The younger Lord Bolton had an unfortunate accident on our wedding night," she says slowly, and this time, he can hear a smile in her voice. "He ran into a knife," she adds, and her lips curl into a feral grin. He has never seen the wolf in her before, but now he can tell that it's there. 

There are many questions he could ask, but he's not sure which one is the safer one, or even the right one. He settles on: "And the older Lord Bolton?"

"Fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck." There's no emotion in her voice this time.

"How... unfortunate," he chooses to repeat her earlier word.

"Very unfortunate," Jon Snow answers him. He remembers the name now. "Men have been dying like flies here in Winterfell lately." The glint in his eyes makes the hairs on the back of Petyr's neck stand up. It's a veiled threat, he realizes, and as he debates on whether to respond to it, he can see them having one of their almost magical conversations again. 

She rises to her feet and the bastard moves with her, the way his hands cradle and support her tugging Petyr's lips up into a knowing smile, even as fury starts to simmer in his belly and bile rises in his throat. He can see the truth in an instant. The babe is probably his as well, and not Ramsay Bolton's. It's a sublime piece of knowledge, even if the betrayal stings.

"Lord Baelish, I believe the time has come for you to be _rewarded_ for everything you have done for me and my family," she says solemnly.

Petyr inclines his head, waiting for her to continue. The bastard cups her cheek, brushing a strand of hair away from her face as she glances up to meet the question in his eyes. Petyr huffs and shakes his head. They are not even trying to hide their affair from him.

When it hits him why they're not making any effort, it's already too late. His heart is trying to leap out of his chest and he knows he should try to beg or run for his life, but he's frozen in his spot and his heart is in his throat, obstructing his voice. 

"Ghost," she mutters, holding her bastard brother's gaze.

He nods and pulls her closer. "You don't have to look," he tells her.

The last thing Petyr sees is the bastard's cruel smile and a flash of white before he's knocked to the floor and cries out in pain. 


End file.
